Cycle

May 2 2012

Dusk comes quick.

Suddenly cool,

as if the blanket of air had thinned

let light slip through

its flimsy threads.

I gather my collar

close to my neck.

Shadows lengthen, smudge

as a soothing greyness covers-up

the messiness

of hard-edged day.

The rocks are hot

and I cup them with my hands,

like a holy man

offering-up

his benediction.

The soothing heat

penetrates deep,

to skin, and blood, and bone.

Ancient rocks

worn smooth

over eons,

where water once flowed

to some primordial sea,

turned to rain

and fell again.

The infinite patience

of nature,

where cycles nest in cycles

and rain must fall.

Tomorrow, the weather will change.

I can feel it in my bones.

Long before dawn

the rocks will have cooled.

Until the next clear day

when they will bask again

in unobstructed sun,

soaking-in warmth.

Save it up

for the chill

of night.

Smooth rocks

I can’t help touching.

Like sun worshippers, turned-up to the sky

they are quiet observers of time,

storing, and releasing heat

softening the cycle.

The seamless succession 

of night and day.

Water rising,
the fall of rain.